


watercolour skies, weary eyes

by tender_wounds



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Relationships, for like the future there might be dubcon maybe noncon idk yet wanring just in case, i am totally not tagging this m/f even though my oc is not in fact a lady, jacob being the huge asshole he is, tags will be updated as i go on, theres like no nb ocs in fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28758888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tender_wounds/pseuds/tender_wounds
Summary: "And then they are praised, “Ianthe well done” a peggie says, out loud, ‘Ianthe’ pronounced so exaggerated, to draw attention and it is the first time their name has ever left lips in these grounds. And people watch and from their eyes they see him look at them for a moment. His eyes graze all over their body, over their legs, and thighs and hips and waist and to their hands that hold the gun to the gun itself and then finally to their face and they think their eyes lock with his. His eyes blue eternal. Blue like the sea. Baby blue. Soft blue. Blue to get lost in.And it all happens within a second."
Relationships: Jacob Seed/Original Female Character(s), Jacod Seed/Original Character
Kudos: 1





	1. prologue: in the dark of night, death breathes on me

**Author's Note:**

> uhh hi! before you begin to read i need to lay out a few things beforehand.
> 
> first off, this fic and the relationship is something i've been thinking about for months now and am only now putting it to word. i am currently in uni studying animation so updates might be spread out as i have all that to work with and i'm struggling to figure out this story. 
> 
> secondly, as a blanket warning for this whole fic, this is going to get pretty dark. i'm not sure exactly what will be in yet so nothing is solid but this narrative deals with dark topics such as abuse, toxic and unhealthy relationships pertaining to manipulation physical violence and violation of consent. violence and gore, as well as murder, will also be present as well as usual warnings pertaining to far cry 5. and moreover, while not set in stone this fic will like deal with sex involving dubious consent and possible rape. the relationship of jacob and ianthe is a completed and outright harmful one and therefore if any of this is a trigger i ask to practice safe reading or to not read if those are sore topics. i will give warnings for each chapter just so no one will be caught out. i do not want anyone to be hurt by my writing so please if take care when reading. 
> 
> also like im gonna be real the noncon dubcn, unhealthy toxic relationship parts are partly because im a weirdo who likes that kinda thing so it's gonna be like fetishy ig so if u dont like that leave. do not eat this dead dove. 
> 
> thirdly, ianthe volkov is my own oc. they are nonbinary probably trans masc (but is unable to really explore that because of narrative reasons) and thus the use of they/them pronouns. if u have an issue with that then too bad. 
> 
> my tumblr is tender_wounds and uhhh that is it. I hope you enjoy reading this! thank you.

_"Days fade into a watercolour blur_   
_Memories swim and haunt you_   
_But look into the lake, shimmering like smoke_   
_Rises the moon_

_Oh close your weary eyes_   
_I promise you that soon the autumn comes_   
_To darken fading summer skies_   
_Breathe, breathe, breathe"_

-rises the moon, celsius (covering liana flores)


	2. muscle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next five chapters are prologue chapters. These will be shorter in length than the rest of the narrative as well as have a different narrative voice.

The sky is pitch black when they all arise. It’s too early for the sun to wake up but not early enough for the moon to be really present. Like every morning, they’re roused by calls, by an alarm, a scream to get up, to get ready, for the day has begun. Ianthe is in many ways used to waking up early, to getting dressed and exercising at the crack of dawn, to the pomp of it all. Yet in spite of this, their bones feel less like bone and more like lead as just like the hundred other corpses forced alive by the necromantic powers of their superiors, they drag themselves out of bed.

The sleeping quarters are simple row upon row of beds covered with dead leaf-coloured blankets, cotton so dark and muddy and so old. The hard mattresses that are like slabs of rocks, feel like clouds with how unwelcome the disturbance is. It’s hard to see little, the hall is virtually lit up with matches. Anyone can barely see past their fingertips even though their eyes have adjusted to the deep darkness since the start 

Like every day, they’re met with the ruffling of bed covers and clothes. No one wants to be up even though they all wanted to be here (or at least pretended to.) No one looks at each other, heads down, not wanting to garner attention and, as result, punishment. There’s not even a whisper or a murmur between one bed to another, barely ever the passing of notes. No one wants to be the last up, no one wants to be seen as weak.

In the morning they’re all perfect soldiers, better than soldiers, moulded to be more than perfect. Night clothes, like every morning, are folded and placed upon pillows. Arms in, in halves and folded. Thin blankets are tucked into the side. Always as straight and creaseless as they can make it in the dark. It’ll all be checked, made sure to be more than perfect but at this point, they all cannot do it any less so. It’s Discipline training. Making them all disciplined without them realising. It’s so simple a task yet so perfect for making the most rule-abiding soldiers.

Peggies walk up and down rows, watching to see if the trainees are doing as they should. Those not will be picked up and forced onto the worst kind of duty, the work that they won’t even give to the trainees or to prisoners.

In straight lines, they all leave to eat morsel breakfast. Tiny little meals that are enough to keep them going and train for the day. Scraps. They’ll get the good stuff once they’ve all proved themselves. 

Every morning, they start with laps. Running for miles on miles in order to warm up the body, to make their legs work and blood pump. The most gruelling kind too for them for why do they deserve any less. They all might have joined willingly but that means nothing in the grounds of the Veteran’s Centre. Only the strong must survive and if they cannot run why should they? is the logic given. If you falter at the start no point in keeping you. You are meat and will be fed to the wolves as meat if you are not up to scratch. They had them all stand out in the mud, Ianthe amongst thirty other crudely dressed recruits. It was cold and wet and icy and their nose and ears hurt from being frozen, the most miserable of days. 

That was the one thing they all learnt if they were to gain anything from this. They are meat and if they are to survive they have to be strong as the weak will not. The peggies told it to them, to their faces: they are meat. They are weak. The peggies seem to take pleasure in the dehumanising, in making everyone lesser, as they never let the prospect go. And that promise is kept even on the first day as those who couldn’t keep up were tossed like corpses, treated like dog food and the rest would never be allowed to forget it.

Ianthe who always has always known that they were meat is unperturbed by the talk. Has never been given the luxury of believing themself as anything greater.

They run laps on laps like every morning. Breath puffing so visibly for the sun is still yet to wake itself. Outside though they are blinded by industrial lights that flood the grounds and the made-up track. Their eyes are used to the dark of their cots but haven't gotten used to the pulsing brightness of the lights. They’re cold, unwaning, and make everything even colder. 

Their superiors, the men who have risen about the training, bark at them every second. They do so in part to keep the recruits in order, to make sure they don’t fall back, and, in a way, give them something to hold on to. They also do it out of a twisted pleasure, of glee, take a sort of sick enjoyment that reminds Ianthe of the aunts of Atwood's tales. A sickness that makes them feel like they’re dressed in red and like cattle and not the mock-up of a soldier that Ianthe is trying to become. They make it into a fun game, mock those who can’t always quite keep up and Ianthe thinks ‘take out of it what you will.’ Those peggies have to get their fun somewhere and it surely is in short supply here. The big bad wolf won’t give it to them, and there’s not much fun that can be created here. They’re bark with no bite really. Wolf with the fangs, the muzzles, unable to grip onto anything. Puppies who think they’re bigger than they are. For Ianthe at least they.

Sure they can drag you off at least. But their talk is all bravado. They’re at risk too if none of them succeed.

And there’s another reason too. They also do it out of fear, out of being seen too lenient. Ianthe and their fellow recruits might be meat but their superiors are just the same. Any moment the wolf could appear out and watch and call them out for being too lenient, too nice, for being  _ weak _ . And He  _ isn’t  _ nice. He  _ isn’t  _ fair. He’ll snap anyone in two no matter how much he needs them. So the peggies become cruel in fear, out of a desire to save their own behinds. And Ianthe cannot hate them, beguile them, for they’d just do the same. Do whatever you must to survive, they think, for what else are they going to do. 

After the hundredth or so lap, Ianthe never really counts just stops when they tell them to, do they call them to stop. The warm-up is finished. The sun starts to peek into the grounds.


	3. pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping next chapter to have a current up-to-date art of Ianthe just for like reference as I do have some stuff but they're old. i know like now they're just this nondescript blob but you will get a description post prologue and i'll hopefully have some visual stuff too.
> 
> anything, first jacob sighting in this chapter and oh boy does a lot (not) happen. when first writing this i highkey freaked out but i am a sad little nerd for these idiots and im really happy how this turned out. i know not everything will have the whole context for this but i hope people can still get a lot of out this. 
> 
> i can't remember if i mentioned this last chapter but for the prologue, there is going to be a chapter a week. they're all written out and only the third one needs another pass. 
> 
> anyways, i hope you enjoy.

From the beginning, the recruits are taught in the way of gunmanship. How to shoot. How to load. How to aim. How to handle. They are thrown in the deep end in many ways, the Peggies never beating around the bush. They’re told they don’t have a lot of time, the reaping will be soon and they will need to be ready to survive. They have to become strong. So they’re handed guys and throwing knives and told to fight. 

The guns are lined up on tables, pik-a-mix style. Choose up whatever you want and go for it. Just shoot something. It feels so incompatible with how Ianthe was once taught. Their old way of learning the gun so intimate and personal. Not nakedly open and crude in a way that feels deeply offensive. Even the targets which are in essence the same leave a bad taste in their mouth and sometimes they feel bile rise to their throat. As a response to what though, they are never sure. 

The gun lesson dunks Ianthe in a bucket of ice water the first time. Shocks them with electricity. It’s so dissimilar in a way that curls their lips but at the same time sends them reeling into their childhood. They never forgot a moment of it, can recount every breath and can shoot and hold a gun as good as when they were first taught. Yet, it feels like the first day they perfected the gun as they pick up one from the table. As crisp as it did then. The pistol is heavy in their hand, delicious, and they are not sure where they are when they grab it. Their hands the ones of their teens. A hand but not their hand, it belongs to someone else. The gun is a spitting image, as if it were the same from that day. They can hear their father telling them to show him their skill. To hit a bullseye and in fact, they do. 

It is a balancing act to let on how skilled they are. Every recruit was picked from who could be bent into the best soldier mockery. Many are veterans, many are not but could become like them. Ianthe was presumed the latter, letting on little of what they knew and their past. It is a struggle to hold themself back, to let on enough so that they do not get in trouble. They try to disappear among all the recruits. Attempt to become invisible in the sea of others so that they survive, so that they can get through this. That is the best bet they assume, to be unseen. Don’t miss targets. Don’t get bullseye every single time. Don’t get perfect headshots right away. Don’t show off. Don’t blow everyone away. Don’t.

It works at first, they can underwhelm for a day or two. But it is hard to hide a speciality, to hide talent, skill. They have always been good at killing. It has always been worn on their wrist. The first time they’re praised they cringe. Curse themselves as people slowly start to watch, amazed. And they wish they weren't so good at killing. Wishes they weren’t a natural.

They stick to pistols at first. Out of comfort and because it is the easiest and most expected. A close friend. They avoid sniper rifles like they’re poison, infested. Partially because it’s out of fear it’d give them away. They still itch to use one however and they know they’re fooling no one, especially Him who knows their affinity for them, their love, adoration. They still like to pretend and of course they cannot stick to pistols forever, the Peggies won’t let them, and when they get too good they have to move to something else. 

Still, they dance around it, picking everything it is not.

They can hear the murmurings about them, the talk of how good they are and it bites. 

At this time there aren't any live bodies to practice on. That comes for the recruits after them. A corpse or two they shoot. Wild animals aplenty but never real people, the gate could never hide the bodies. 

Then they move onto physical training. Building up muscle. Stretching, Sit-ups. Hand-to-hand combat where recruits beat each other up with anything they can. Fists, legs, bats, poles. Dirty as you can. Dirty as you wish. Just fight and beat and hurt and kill and maim. The dirtier you are the better you’re praised. So many end up black and blue from it. Battle royal. 

Then one day as they do the normals (shooting, running, beating each other up, becoming meat soldiers) does he, the big bad wolf, come out to play. He watches over them, rarely seen before this point but known. When he isn’t there you can feel his presence. It hovers over all like a ghost. A warning. Here though he is real. Army jacket, muscle, ginger beard and ginger hair, imposing, frightening. Will tear your skin off. Everyone becomes rigid at his appearance, a mix of fear overwhelming and desire to show they are not weak. Hoping not to be weak. They are not to acknowledge him, just to carry on, otherwise, he’d be happy to pull them out. The stories of what he does to those he dislikes are such heavy reminders now that he is here. They might be meat but they do not want to be fed to wolves as such.

Ianthe if they did not know better, would have froze, but they’re smart enough to carry on. Their soul leaves their body however and they feel as though they are not here. They hoped to have avoided him, to not ever have to see him but he stands not too far away. Real. Alive. He has not yet seen them as he scans over and marks. Eyes of a predator that picks your muscles from bones. 

They try to ignore him, fall into a rhythm, get lost and pretend as if everything is normal and as if they are not dying. And then somehow, they get perfect shots. And then they are praised, “Ianthe well done” a peggie says, out loud, ‘Ianthe’ pronounced so exaggerated, to draw attention and it is the first time their name has ever left lips in these grounds. And people watch and from their eyes they see him look at them for a moment. His eyes graze all over their body, over their legs, and thighs and hips and waist and to their hands that hold the gun to the gun itself and then finally to their face and they think their eyes lock with his. His eyes blue eternal. Blue like the sea. Baby blue. Soft blue. Blue to get lost in. 

And it all happens within a second. 

Without saying anything, he leaves the recruits to continue, having gotten what he wants. And Ianthe is alight, on fire, for he saw them, looked at them. Saw the aftermath of shooting perfect. They do not know what that look meant. Devoid of anything. Of everything What does it mean? What does it mean? What will this mean for them? They shouldn’t be here, they shouldn’t be within these ranks. These grounds and halls and the dead rotting building. They shouldn’t be shooting, getting ready to be one of his soldiers. If his face was so devoid of anything does he care about them so little anymore? Are they really like any soldier here now? Have they become to mean so little now? That seeing them isn’t the same as why they see him. Did he ever see them in such a way? In a way that strangles. In a way that hurts. Is he trying not to feel like how he has always been so good at doing? Does he still love them? Does he hate them? Does he hate them now because they are here? 

They wish they weren’t here. Wish they weren’t here with him. Wish this wasn’t where they were. It’s the wrong place, the wrong time. Wishes it didn’t end up like this. 

What does he think of them now? Has he realised that they hid so much from him just like he did to them? Does he think it was all a lie? Does he think anything at all?


End file.
